Satire recoils whenever charged too high; round your own fame the fatal splinters fly.

Fond man! the vision of a moment made! Dream of a dream! and shadow of a shade!

When pain can't bless, heaven quits us in despair.

Youth is not rich in time; it may be poor; Part with it as with money, sparing; pay No moment but in purchase of its worth, And what it's worth, ask death-beds; they can tell.

Blest leisure is our curse; like that of Cain, It, makes us wander, wander earth around, To fly that tyrant Thought. As Atlas groan'd The world beneath, we groan beneath an hour.

Some for renown, on scraps of learning dote, And think they grow immortal as they quote.

Where boasting ends, there dignity begins.